Of the Unlikely Sort
by SnapeJuice
Summary: A NevillePansy romance. Companion piece to That Which Does Not Kill Me. When you put your arms around meWell, baby, there ain't nothing in this world I can't do. Keith Urban, Somebody Like You
1. On Romance

"Would you mind passing the lacewings, please?" he asked you, his arm trembling as he reached across the table. 

Afraid perhaps that if you two accidentally touched, the temptation to cannibalize him would be too strong to pass up. You _were _a Slytherin, after all. 

And you looked at him, oddly. 

You had never noticed him. He caught the look on your face.

His face very generic, his hair typical, but his hands, as they shook slightly, they were long and conditioned. They were _used _on a daily basis. 

You passed him the lacewings.

Then stared at your own hands, at their softness, and their shortness. At your manicured fingers, and pristine cuticles. 

And then you attempted to finish your potion.

*****

You learned his name was Neville Longbottom. 

That he was _Gryffindor. _

That you should avoid him - which you did with little problem.

That his father was an Auror and his mother was a housewife. And that they were both nutters in St. Mungo's. 

You learned that when he walked, he looked at the hard stone floor of Hogwarts. You learned that he lived with his grandmother. You learned that he called Dean Thomas and Seamus Finnigan his best friends, when in fact, it was secretly a frog named Trevor. 

And you learned Trevor liked to leap. 

Especially into girls' cleavages. Not that you had any at the time, granted, but it was during the Yule Ball fourth year, Draco Malfoy as your date, when you decided you wanted some air, tired of watching _pretty _Hermione Granger, with her sleeked hair, being courted by Viktor Krum. You happened upon Neville outside - on a balcony, in the gardens, the location did not matter – as he whispered to his green friend.

"What kind of date does a frog make, Longbottom?" you queried, your attitude displayed about as well as your developing breasts.

He stared at you, frightened. 

"I-I wouldn't know what kind of date a frog would make," he stuttered, " 'cause this is a toad." And he walked back into the party, holding his amphibian loosely in his long fingers; it leaped straight onto you when he passed you. 

You screamed, not that anybody could hear you over the Weird Sisters. 

You screamed, not that it would remove the slimy, warty _thing _wiggling somewhere within your dress. 

You screamed, not that this clumsy boy with red cheeks would attempt to touch you, let alone get his frog – toad, you reminded yourself matter-of-factly, not a frog – out from somewhere between your breasts.

And as the frog fell down, down from underneath your dress, it poked its bulging eyes from underneath your beautiful dress, you laughed. Why, though? The hilarity of the moment? The awkwardness of the situation? The relief at having this boy's pet on the ground and not crawling somewhere on your abdomen?

He laughed too, as he reached down to retrieve his toad. As he dusted your dress, and conjured a handkerchief to remove the slime from the top of your dress. His eyes sparkled, and his shoulders straightened. 

He made eye contact with you. 

And you liked it.

*****

You heard things about him. That he was a coward, and that he fraternized with the blowhard hero sort, the carrot-topped sidekick sort and know-it-all girl book buddy sort.

Of course, you didn't believe all of it. This does not mean, though, that you didn't believe _some _of it.

Draco was what was _expected _of you, but he saw you as nothing more than a conquest. The number of notches on his broomstick, the better life was for him, with his glistening white-blonde hair and angelic looks. 

You heard many things from your fellow Slytherins – that the Longbottom boy was crazy, maniacal, or _both. _That insanity ran in his family. That he lived with his grandmother. That he was horrible at Potions (you, though, saw this first-hand in Snape's class), and horrible at sticking up for himself. That he was wonderful at Herbology and wonderful at listening whenever you spoke to him.

But you rarely did this, seeing as how you were avoiding him. 

Somehow, though, by fifth year, you would exchange a passing barb with him when Draco was around, or a silent hello, or a wave, when Draco _wasn't_ around. 

And sometimes, you'd carefully pet that stupid little toad when you saw him peek his head out from his pocket. He was, after all, the first thing to ever touch your breasts. That must count for something.

And sometimes, you would encounter him in the library, that toad sitting on the table, as he studied some book intently, his tongue out, touching his top lip as he concentrated, his fingers moving down the page as he read. You would sit down, and he would look up, shocked that you would sit at any table with him. And as darkness fell and dinnertime came and went, you would talk, about toads and school and families and expectations. About Slytherins and Gryffindors, Muggles and wizarding folk, and whatever other opposites settled themselves on your tongue. 

"What would the Slytherins think," he questioned, "knowing that you were with me?"

"That's the thing about my House," you answered capably. "We rarely think, we just _do_."

*****

Then one day, it happened. 

After enough quiet conversations in dimly lit libraries, after enough nights spent sneaking out to skip rocks on the water, after enough hours toad-sitting to deem yourself an expert on the creatures, after enough locked gazes in the Great Hall and hesitant touches in hallways, you realized that you were in love with him. 

That the reserved boy you had met in your Potions class first year was in fact the boy that you knew – you _knew –_ you were meant to be with. 

When you realized that information, and it took you a good six years to realize it, the first person you wanted to share it with was he. He who had listened to you about your problems with Draco and Madam Hooch and Hagrid, and comforted you when you were scared about life post-Hogwarts, and talked you up after you had failed your Herbology final. 

You found him in Northern corridor, near Hagrid's, coming out of class, clutching that toad, who was not so much slimy as he was aridly-challenged. 

You pulled him away from his conversation with Scarboy – no, you literally _pulled _him out of that conversation, clutching his elbow fiercely, pushing him out towards the grass, him complaining and questioning, "What's going on?" non-stop. 

"I love you," you said, your 16-year-old self absolutely bursting at the seams to tell him this news you had just found out.

"What?" he squeaked. 

"I love you," you repeated, and at that moment, you didn't care if he loved you back or if anybody was watching. You kissed him. And you kissed him some more as the sunlight shined brightly on your golden hair. He ran his fingers through your hair, somewhat awkwardly. 

Everything he did was awkward, you realized, but that was fine.

You pulled back, and he stared at you stupidly.

He licked his lips and cocked his eyebrow.

"What?" he squeaked. 

*****

Things progressed. You held his hand and said hi to him with words now. You didn't insult him, even if Draco was around. You were proud. And you felt pretty. He _made _you feel pretty.

Seventh year rolled around and the ribbing never stopped. If it wasn't Potter, it was Granger. If it wasn't Granger, it was Weasley. If it wasn't Weasley, it was Bulstrode. If it wasn't Bulstrode, it was Crabbe. If it wasn't Crabbe, it was Malfoy. It came from every end, from every House, from every person who couldn't quite believe that you had fallen for that toad-wielding schmuck. 

He isn't a schmuck, you'd defend. 

Is his slavemaster of a grandmother _paying _you? they would ask you. 

No. I just love him. Then you would walk away. 

Your parents had no problem with the arrangement. He was pureblooded, if not a little too anxious whenever he was invited for dinner. And he had no spunk, they complained.

He has spunk, you'd defend. He just has to be comfortable with you.  

"Are you sure _this _is what you want?" you asked him later as you lay with him in the darkness, holding hands, him clutching you closer on the bed, his legs entangled with yours.

"I'm sure," he murmured before kissing you as you ran your fingers over his pudgy face, which was not so much pudgy as it was _kissable_. 

"We're going to be leaving Hogwarts soon," you started slowly, trembling as badly as his hand on that first day in Potions. 

He looked at you, seeking your eyes despite the black that surrounded you. "I know," he responded, squeezing his hand.

"I-ummm, I need to tell you something," you said.

"What?"

You stared past his gaze, over the top of his nose towards the moon that shone brightly. "I'm pregnant."

And he rose a little, and took a deep breath. Held it. Exhaled. Repeated a few more times before opening his mouth. 

You closed your eyes. Afraid. Of his reaction? Of his response to impending fatherhood? 

You opened his eyes.

You saw his goofy smile. 

"Well," he laughed, "I hope it's either a boy or a girl."

"I'd say that's a pretty safe bet," you responded.

"Do you think you'll hyphenate your name, then?"

And you gasped. You didn't expect _this. _ "Are you asking me to marry you, Longbottom? 

"Yes, I suppose I am."

"Life would be much easier – just you and your frog," you pointed out.

"I wouldn't know what kind of bride a frog would make," he said, "but I am attracted to you more than I am a toad."

You punched him in the shoulder, kissed him, and snuggled deeper into him.

*****

When the doctor handed you Francesca Parkinson Longbottom, you knew that it hadn't been in vain, walking around Hogwarts that last year as if you were a blimp underneath yards and yards of robes. 

Not that anyone would have given you a hard time, considering Draco had threatened to sic Crabbe and Goyle on anyone who even looked at this married seventh year the wrong way.

He was beside you in the birthing room, coaching you, breathing with you, when he was not sitting down in the chair provided, on the verge of fainting. He was in worse condition than you ever were. Nauseous and green, constantly moaning, trying to be supportive when the one thing he wanted was _out of that room. _

And when Frankie started crying in your arms, her blonde hair and chubby cheeks front and center, your husband looked at you, looked at the baby, and started crying too.

You knew that it hadn't been in vain.

Because this was it. 

This was _it. _

This was your home – wherever you were didn't matter as long as you were with your husband, and your baby.

And your toad.

Welcome home.


	2. On Marriage

So this was married life. 

Suddenly, you were constantly performing Erasing Charms on your parchment in History of Magic, changing the Pansy Parkinson to Pansy Longbottom. 

Suddenly, you were missing Muggle Studies on those days that Neville blew up yet another cauldron in Advanced Potions, and suddenly, you were defending your husband to your Head of House. 

"Longbottom, Miss Parkinson? I just don't understand," Snape grumbled, genuinely befuddled, his long fingers outlining his chin repeatedly.

"No, I doubt you would," you responded delicately, child firmly in manicured hand.

Suddenly, you had to place a Silencing Charm on your bed, and the bassinet housed at its side, each and every night to prevent Frankie from awakening the others.

And suddenly, you comprehended that the world, in fact, did not revolve around you. 

You planned.

You planned time in the morning to fetch the heated milk from the Kitchen for Frankie, you planned time for Trevor's feedings, you planned time for Neville to complete his homework, you planned time to sit, to sleep. 

You planned time to plan time.

"You make me complete," you told him, looking at the blonde gurgling bundle in a bassinet by the fire. 

There was a moment, a beat, as your husband stared at you, absolutely unsure of what to say. He looked down at the child, then straight into the fire.

"I-I'm not such a bumbling prat wh-when I'm with you," he stuttered. "Y-you make me graceful."

*****

He said he was happy, and you believed him.

You knew you were happy, and sometimes it was hard to believe. 

"We're married," you exclaimed, frustrated, "we share a baby, and we can't even share a bed!"

He put a hand on your shoulder. "You know that male students are not allowed to share beds with female students. Marriage does not change that, " he whispered quietly. "Rules are rules, Pansy, my Puffskein."

Searching the top of your husband's tousled head for the well-hidden halo, you replied, "So they are," resignedly listening to the conscience that came with your wedding dress. 

Because you married a Gryffindor, you accepted this. 

And because your husband married a Slytherin, he did not.

He stared at you hesitantly and licked his lips before speaking.

"There _is_ always the Astronomy Tower."

*****

Trevor the toad, it seemed, loved you.

Your grandmother-in-law, though, did not.

"Are you sure about her?" you overheard, her bevultured hat bouncing as she spoke. "She _is_ a Parkinson, Neville, darling."

"No, Gran. She's a Longbottom."

*****

Smoke would appear out of Gryffindor Tower every so often, but you were never concerned. He was just trying to conjure new and exotic beverages for your daughter's consumption.

The juice spells never worked correctly for Neville, but then all spells _never_ worked correctly for Neville.

Luckily, though, Frankie was content with pumpkin juice (already present at Hogwarts, thank you), and Neville was content when Frankie was content.

*****

Your husband understood that despite everything – you being a wife, a mother, a student – you at your core, you were still just seventeen.

And you needed time to _be _seventeen.

It didn't take long to realize that after you had a child, priorities changed, and so did your relationship with Millicent and Blaise. Tittering about what Draco wore under his robes to Care of Magical Creatures no longer suited its function like it used to, so occasionally, you would follow your husband.

He would take her after Advanced Herbology and together they would walk around the campus, his lips pressed up to her soft, smooth forehead as he whispered things to her he would never say to his grandmother, or to you, or even to Trevor.

"I'll still love you if you're a Squib."

"I love you and your mummy more than anything."

"See there? That's where _I _punched Crabbe and Goyle, you know, those nasty big blokes with the constipated looks on their faces."

"I don't know why I'm such a klutz. My gran reckons it's 'cause my dad was one, but he was also an Auror, so those cancel each other out."

"Sometimes, Frankie, you know, I'm scared 'bout stuff. Scared that I won't make anything of myself. Scared that I'll never _deserve _your mum. I don't wanna disappoint her."

Needless to say, he never disappointed you.

*****

The school year ended, and you left Hogwarts, and your childhood and your innocence behind on that rock.

You learned to ignore dirty looks and dirty diapers.

You learned to balance a baby in one hand and a stack of textbooks in the other.

You learned that Frank Longbottom liked smashed carrots more than smashed asparagus, which was fine, because Frankie tended to eat the asparagus for him, and they would sit there together, eyeing one another, grandfather feeding granddaughter as she rocked back and forth in her bouncy chair, fleeting moments of recognition passing between them.

You learned that smashed asparagus did not _agree _with Frankie; there was proof if you cared to bare witness. 

You learned that Slytherin House really _was _the best House at Hogwarts.

You learned that both Weasley, godfather of your child, and Potter, godfather of your child, had feelings for Granger, godmother of your child.

And you learned that the thought of _anyone,_ godfather of your child or not, having _feelings_ for Granger, godmother of your child, made you nauseous.

You learned that your husband and your child didn't laugh with just their mouths, no, they laughed with their whole bodies, shaking and giggling as if it started in their toes and spread up to their foreheads. 

And making them laugh made _you _feel good.

_You_ learned how to laugh.

You learned that you were only young once, and that there was no longer time for quiet conversations in dimly lit libraries. Those carefree nights of sneaking out to skip rocks on the water were over because you had a baby, and babies needed their parents _always._

There was, however, plenty of time to toad-sit, and instead of locking gazes with your beloved across the Great Hall, you instead sat with him, and talked to him, not caring who saw and what was said. 

And when the urge pronounced itself, you touched him, not hesitantly, not ashamedly, but with love, because you wanted to.

Because you _could. _

You were in love.

And as he wrapped his pudgy hand around your waist, and as the product of that love drooled unabashedly as you three stood on the train platform to leave for good, you knew you were better for coming here, to live under that wretched Dumbledore for seven years.__

You were in love.

And that was all there was to it.


	3. On Loss

You discovered that your mother was _not _crazy, that when she said motherhood changed you, she was _right._

It took you a whole year to lose that pregnancy weight. 

Not that your grandmother-in-law noticed, the old bat: "Perhaps it's high time _someone _lost that the post-pregnancy weight?" she cooed to your daughter every time you, your beloved and your baby Floo'd to his childhood home.

Not that Neville minded: "There's just more of you to love," he said reassuringly, holding you in his pudgy arms while the extra heaviness made you feel like the world's only wizarding Mooncalf.

"Over the river, and through the woods, to Grandmother's house we go…" you heard Neville sing softly to a tired Frankie as you walked up the walkway to – well, his grandmother's house.

Sometimes, you wished the three of you could just run off into the woods - _anything _to prevent a visit with the dreaded in-laws. Better yet, you pondered slyly, as your husband peered down at Frankie lovingly, perhaps you could push the hag into a river.

*****

It paid to have connections.

No, it paid _well _to have connections.

Despite the fact that Lucius Malfoy thought you disturbed for marrying "the nutty Auror's son" when you should have married Draco, he knew you were the consummate professional. And because of this, he recommended you for the Charity Coordinator position at St. Mungo's. 

Domesticity was never your cup of tea – not that you drank tea. 

Your husband, though, seemed to have developed a taste for it, and the arrangement worked swimmingly for you two, as you Apparated to St. Mungo's each day, bright and early, while your husband prepared Frankie's early morning meal.

"Off to work, my Puffskein?" he asked, waving his wand as the dish washed itself with one hand, feeding Frankie some green, lumpy concoction that smelled like the old gamekeeper's feet at Hogwarts, when he decided it was time air out the "li'l laddies" during Care of Magical Creatures. "Open up, _please, _Frankie. Come now."

"Tickle her chin," you instructed gently, "she'll open her mouth."

He looked at you, disappointed. "I don't know _why _she's being so difficult. Gran said I loved smashed asparagus and liver when I was a child. Said I should give it to her every morning."

You decided that your child's great-grandmother was trying to murder her only great-granddaughter; it was the only logical explanation for her instructing Neville to feed _that _to your daughter.

"Puddlebum, why not try the strained apricots?" you offered as your husband sat back in his chair, frustrated. "She may not like your grandmother's recipe." 

You kissed your husband's forehead and your daughter's roly-poly cheek, as you prepared to Apparate out.

And he shook his head, not understanding how anyone _couldn't _enjoy the taste of smashed asparagus and liver.

*****

Frankie's many attempts at fitting Trevor the Toad into her mouth whole only whet her appetite for amphibian slime. And while she only managed a gangly leg most tries, the experience had traumatized poor Trevor so much so that he refused to go anywhere near your child.  

There was many a night when you Apparated home to find your home in shambles as Neville, hunched over, pink apron tied around his waist, with a drooling child on the floor, called, "Trevor? Trevor? Where'd you go this time?" as he sought out his pet.

And you'd put your briefcase down, sigh, straighten your robes, kiss your child, bend over, and settle in for an evening of toad hunting. 

It never lasted long, though. 

You often found Trevor in the same exact place, time after time - being clutched by an infant's hand, doing his damnedest to escape, as she attempted to make a meal of him. 

*****

You amassed guilt as you amassed your Victorius Ogdenblath shoe collection: often and due to various sources. 

You were dedicated to your career, and corporate donations to St. Mungo's went up 37% in your first six months, but when Frankie's first word was "Tweva" instead of "Mama," your heart ached because you felt you didn't deserve the honor of being _the first word. _

And when her second word was, "Daddy," you felt discouraged, but when "Wibbit" showed up in her vocabulary before "Mama," you were just plain annoyed.

When Neville, though, began trading stain-removal tips for black robes with Lavender Finnigan instead of you, you got possessive, and decided to infiltrate their housespouses' circle of Gryffindor-ial helpful household hints.

After you'd left their little chat session, you returned to work, befuddled, the next morning, clutching a copy of "Your Robes Are Your Friend: Laundering for the Non-House Elf," by Theodosia Malkin, contemplating the news that there _were _no such things as Laundry Fairies, as your mum had told you.

*****

It was a Friday, in the middle of June when you arrived home to find Neville lying on the couch, puffy eyed, as your daughter lay on his chest, a fist shoved up to her mouth. 

"T-trevor – h-he d-d-died today," he stated simply.

You asked no questions as you gently picked your daughter up and put her in her bassinet. 

And you still asked no questions as you returned to your husband in the front room as he sobbed into your shoulder.

*****

"Trevor was an amazing toad," Neville started, somewhat nervously (he was never good at speaking in front of crowds, even small ones), as the lot of you stood around a tiny bejeweled box containing the amphibian on the weekend following the death. "He was loved by everyone who knew him, and, maybe I'm a little biased, but I think he's the smartest toad who ever lived. I remember when Uncle Algie got him for me-" Neville's high pitched voice broke as you hugged him – "well, from the first moment I saw Trevor, I knew he was the toad for me. So sweet, so likeable. He had the toughest, warty green skin, always lubricated, such a beautiful toad. . ."

Trevor was quite possibly the ugliest thing you had ever laid eyes on - except for Crabbe and Goyle, of course.

Neville continued as you squeezed his hand. "He was a trooper, despite the fact that Professor Snape forever wanted to test my potions on him. Trevor'd eat anything, you know. Always so trusting. A special thanks to Professor Dumbledore, who allowed me to bury my precious toad here at Hogwarts. Trevor spent many of his happiest years here, and thanks to Hagrid, who will bury my sweet toadie for me." 

Dumbledore nodded as Neville looked up to the mourners. Potter, Weasley, Granger stood towards the back of the group. Your grandmother-in-law stood next to you as you held Frankie, the Gamekeeper to the left of your grandmother-in-law.

"If all you – my closest friends, my family – if all of you could do me a favor, perhaps? Maybe you'll each share some words about my sweet toad?" He sounded hopeful. You made eye contact with Weasley across the way, and the same look of terror crossed his eyes – he didn't know what to say either. "Hermione, if you could start?"

That Mudblood Granger opened her mouth and said, "Trevor. . . was a good toad. I remember that I met Ron and Harry because I was l-looking for Trevor. I hope he's happy in the amphibian hereafter."

Scarboy's eyes darted around as if he wanted to escape. "Great swimmer, that Trevor. I. . . ummm. . . he was very friendly, never tried to bite me. I even practiced a Summoning Charm on him a few times. He was a good toad."

Ron anxiously stared at his large, gangly hands before starting: "I got to know Trevor well, Neville, having lived with him for seven years. Smart toad. For what its worth, I'm really sorry Trevor. . . ummm. . .croaked." 

You tried to stifle a giggle, burying your face in Frankie's neck, hoping your husband didn't notice as Weasley reddened.

Across the way, you heard Dumbledore chuckle. "As I've told Mr. Potter before, to the well-organized mind, death is but the next adventure. There is no doubt to me that Trevor was incredibly bright – and I believe that Trevor is having a great time in exploring the ponds of whatever may come." 

You saw that large oaf of a gamekeeper, Hagrid, blubber, " 'S'always 'ard when a boy loses 'is pet. I remember when I los' me l'il Norbert. . ." but couldn't speak as he blew his nose in violent fashion, emitting a noise that might waken the very dead Trevor, too distraught to speak.

Your grandmother-in-law was too busy sobbing to say anything, so she just waved her handkerchief, passing the speaking opportunity on to you: "Trevor the Toad got fresh with me months before Neville ever did – when he jumped down my dress at the Yule Ball one year." Everyone laughed softly, as you continued. "I'll miss him, he was apart of Neville, and therefore apart of me. An integral part of our courtship involved Trevor, and for those moments we spent together, I'll never forget him." 

Neville stopped for a moment and looked at you. "That was beautiful, my Puffskein. Thank you for that. Thank you _all _for your kind words."

You saw the Golden Trio start to walk away, as you slowly pulled away from Neville now that the ceremony was over. 

"Wait!" Neville yelled, as all of you stopped to look back at him. "Frankie never spoke."

"Darling," you interceded, patting his hand, "Frankie can barely talk as it is."

"Please, Frankie," Neville prodded. "Please say something about Trevor."

Your toddler stopped for a moment, pulled her thumb out of her mouth as she contemplated Neville's request:

"Tweva yummy!"

A/N All kinds of thanks, and I mean _all _kinds, to Isa, who provided invaluable help to me. The "Tweva yummy," "jealous!Pansy joins the Housespouses' Club," and "Laundry Fairies" bits belongs to her, as any sort of humor you may find in this story, because she may be the funniest HP writer out there. Thank you, and I mean it, THANK YOU. 

Love, Steven Nicholas Findley


	4. On Pregnancy

There was no denying that life as a Longbottom could be monotonous. 

Gone were the days spent gossiping with Millicent and Blaise about whether Professor McGonagall really _was _the world's oldest living virgin, instead replaced with screaming toddlers and forgetful husbands.

Gone were the days of picking _on_ Granger, replaced instead with picking _up_ Frankie. 

You went from excitement to exhausted in no time fast.

You went from chowing down on chocolate to chowing down on asparagus and liver in an effort to prove to your baby daughter that the lumpy, green substance was _yummy._

You went from being the center of the world to simply dallying on the periphery. Priority number one went to being a mother.

And if there was one thing you loved more than chocolate, it was being pregnant. So when you found out you were expecting your second child at the ripe old age of twenty, not only would you have _another _person growing inside you – you'd also get to eat all the chocolate you wanted without feeling guilty. Shivers ran up and down your spine as you contemplated being _thisclose_ to another person once again. 

Except for the weight. You were _not _looking forward to gaining that weight again, especially after you'd fought so hard to lose it. You were _not _looking forward to snide comments from your grandmother-in-law. 

You were, however, looking forward to sharing the news with your husband. This pregnancy would be different, you were sure. You had been out of Hogwarts for years, there would be none of the problems that came with Frankie, as you accustomed yourself to your new, larger body, cravings, waves of nausea, and _stares _from other students. 

Munching on your third Chocolate Frog before dinner, you sat across from your husband who was in the process of feeding his ravenously hungry child something pink and gelatinous. "Puddlebum?" you asked.

"Hmmm?" he responded, distracted, as rose-tinted drool fell down Frankie's mouth. 

You took a moment. "Another Longbottom's going to be coming soon," you explained, patting your stomach. He was too busy shoving another spoonful into Frankie's mouth, who, before he could refill the spoon, already had her mouth open, ready for more.

"Daddy, more, peeze," Frankie requested, widening her mouth.  

The spoon was poised in front of Frankie's mouth as Neville noticed that smoke coming out of his soufflé in the oven. "Bloody hell!"

He shuddered. "Gran's not coming again, is she?" he queried, obviously thinking about her last visit where she chastised him for taking on his wife's tasks.

"No," you whispered to your husband, getting up and turning off the oven with your wand. He wasn't going to pay attention, he had five things going on right now with dinner on the stove and Frankie fussing, besides being the most absent-minded individual in all of wizarding Britain.

"Daaaadddyy, I waaanttt mooorre, peeeeze," said Frankie in a singsong voice.

"Love, love, stop, stop, put the spoon down," you instructed, and he did as told. "Listen to me, Neville, darling. Listen." You grabbed his hand and put it on your abdomen – and he got it in that moment. His jaw fell, and the bowl fell out of his hand, until you reflexively froze it midair with your wand and brought it towards you. 

"So we're going to have another one of _these _puttering around the house?" referring to his child with mouth wide open, making a grab for the spoon in your hand.

Frankie had given up trying to get either of your attention, and started singing to herself: _"Over the hills and far away, Teletubbies come out to play…"_

And you nodded, putting the bowl on the tray in front of Frankie's high chair, sitting on his pink carnation covered lap. Gods, you hated that song, and if food would keep her quiet, then by all means, let her make a mess. __

"We hit the jackpot with Frankie, Pansy, my Puffskein. Forget having a boy or a girl. If the child is _human, _I'll be eternally satisfied."__

"Again, darling, I believe that's a safe bet," you whispered before kissing him. 

*****

More than the odd cravings, more than the nausea, more the _weight gain – _the thing you hated far more than any of this was, oddly enough, the time you had to spend on the toilet. It seemed that you spent half your pregnancy with Frankie in the girls' lavatory (what a waste of time!), and this pregnancy was proving to be no exception. 

You decided to be productive, though. No minute would be wasted, you vowed to yourself, as you completed the paperwork for maternity leave from St. Mungo's well into your third month, sitting on the john. Awkward, yes, but impossible, no.

The two of you decided that you would leave at the beginning of your eighth month, when you would be so _huge _anyway, it would be difficult for you to Apparate or Floo anyway. You would be leaving at a critical point in Charity Services – the start of the new quarter when projected charitable donations would be presented to the board of directors. And while the duties leading up to the leave would be stressful and difficult, you reminded yourself you were married to Neville Longbottom. 

Life rarely got more complicated than that.

*****

Frankie was indeed your daughter, a touch spoiled –

Well, perhaps a little more than spoiled:

"Mummy, I wanta little sister," Frankie declared one night. "I know I'll getta little sister."

"And how do you know this, Lady Francesca?" you asked, tickling her.

"Gwampa Pewwy said he'd get me anythin' I ever wanted," she declared. 

"Yes, well, Grandpa Perry will do with remembering that you are _my _daughter, if he knows what's good for him," you responded dryly.

And as Frankie was your child, she was also your husband's.

She toddled about your living room, searching high and low, every crevice for something, moving sofa cushions, a determined look on her face.

"Frankie, what are you looking for?" you asked as she moved into the kitchen, searching through pots and pans.

"My gwasses, Mummy. I lost my sungwasses!" she sobbed to you.

You reached towards her, pulling them off the top of her head where they were hiding in plain sight.

*****

Your belly grew and your cheeks fattened up, and you became maternal and content and moody and derisive and _jealous. _For some reason, you were under the impression that Neville was flirting with the milkwoman who came every morning, and the odd thing was that you knew that Neville, more than anyone in this world, could not flirt. He couldn't do _anything_ subtly without blurting out his true intentions. 

You _knew _this. Then why were you still jealous, sitting on the couch, eating your sixth Chocolate Frog before dinner, refusing to speak to your husband after accusing him of breaking up your happy home?

Nothing you did, nothing you felt made sense. You were a whirlwind of emotions, happy one moment, miserable the next, content one second, empty the next. 

It made no _sense. _

You made no sense.

A few months yet, you told yourself. A few months yet, and everything would return to normal. Your emotions, your waist, your breasts. Just a few months yet until you met this new person within you.

You couldn't wait.__


	5. On Marital Discord

In the spirit of wars before it, the Great War commenced with a sputter - that is, with fits and starts, small rebellions immediately squashed. Just when you thought _it -_ the bad, the evil, the foe - had been defeated and the conflict beaten down, you discovered that it had just taken a moment to retreat, to regain itself and its strength.

The Great War signaled the loss of balance in the wizarding world. 

The Great War signaled the partnership between the Savior of the Wizarding World - that is, Harry Potter - and the single greatest wizard the wizarding world possessed: Headmaster Albus Dumbledore.

The Great War, though, also signaled the end of your marriage.

It was with a heavy heart, a heavy bulk at your midsection, and a heavy toddler clutching at your ankles that you left your home and your husband - which, intrinsically, were one and the same. He _was _your home.

"Don't leave me," he pleaded, tears rolling down the cheeks that so closely resembled Frankie's. 

"I have no choice," you whispered derisively, as if that statement itself explained the multitude of emotions you had felt in the seconds, hours, days leading up to this decision. "It was your decision to enlist in the Magical Defense Legion. You _promised _me 'till death to us part!' It's not my fault if you decide to hasten death. You neglected to keep your promise, so I neglect mine to remain with you."

"It's my duty!" he shouted, kneeling, hugging Frankie, whose pudgy arms were encircling Neville's neck. "The Death Eaters are holding our people hostage. I _have _to get involved."

"If Harry Potter wants to play ringmaster to the wizarding troops, that's fine, but I am not married to Potter. I will _not _expose my children to the harm that will befall the family of a Magical Legionnaire." You fastened the string to your satchel full of Frankie's diapers, and, holding out a hand, summoned, "Come, Francesca."

Frankie looked bewildered, her eyes darting back between her teary father and you, her steadfast mother. "Francesca Parkinson Longbottom, _now_," you whispered darkly in that way reserved just for mothers throughout generations past. 

Pulling her beloved sunglasses onto her head despite the fact that it was freezing, she toddled over and took your hand.

"Pansy, my Puffskein, your due date's next week. What if you go into labor?" he asked.

"My father will call you. Under no circumstances are you to come to St. Mungo's," you concluded, rushing out the door, somewhat dragging your firstborn towards the waiting Knight Bus.

You would not allow your children to become pawns in Voldemort's quest for revenge.

You would not allow _yourself _to go insane with worry as your husband played a high-stakes game of Cowboys and Indians alongside Harry bloody Potter.

And, of course, you would not allow yourself to see the truth. (You were as Slytherin as they come, and you would sooner hug Professor Dumbledore than acknowledge fear.)

You would not allow yourself to see that you were petrified about your husband leaving you - dying, perhaps, in some battle somewhere. 

It was just a safer alternative - before he left ever left you, it was easier to leave him.

*****

Your father, Perry Parkinson was many things - a liar ("I prefer master of manipulation"), a thief ("Isn't it nicer to say shrewd businessman?"), and above all, corrupt ("I like to thing of myself as having a flexible set of morals").

But only when it came to matters of economic interest. He was also wealthy, respected and feared.

He was not, however, one of those pathetic caricatures of evil, as he called them; he was not a Death Eater. 

And he was glad to have you and his grandchild home.

"That Gryffindor has the personality of a doorknob, _really, _I don't know what you saw in him," Perry admonished, taking another plate of green beans from Pinky, the old-looking house elf who'd raised you.

"Please, Perry," Pepper chastised. "Not in front of the c-h-i-l-d."

"Sorry, dear," he apologized, not wanting to infuriate your mother, who, in the great scheme of things, held more power in the Parkinson household than your father ever would.

*****

Frankie asked you every hour on the hour when you would take her "to go see Daddy, so I can tell all about the big puwple bus and Gwampa Pewwy's new kitty and…"

And, being on maternity leave, there was no hiding from her unless your mother decided to take her to the ButterBeer shop down the street, so you sat her down one day to discuss the _issue. _"Daddy and Mummy are having a little disagreement," you started.

"Disagweement?" she repeated, making a face as if she had just drank a gallon of bubotuber pus.

"Daddy did something that Mummy didn't like, and so I felt I needed to get away for awhile. From Daddy, that is," you attempted.

"But I miss Daddy," she stated matter-of-factly, as if the fact that she _missed _him would erase any betrayal still sitting on your heart.

"I miss him, too," you responded, pulling Frankie closer as your other child kicked violently from somewhere within you, "but some things, Frankie - some things are unforgivable."

*****

The world's only wizarding Mooncalf spent a lot of her time at home, eating Chocolate Frogs as her due date came… and went. 

You went to the park with Frankie - once even going to a _special _park, one filled with those Muggles Neville enjoyed watching documentaries about on the Wizarding Wireless Vision Services. And Frankie seemed to get a kick out of watching those little non-magical kids pumping their legs back and forth on the swing, laughing at the prospect of _not _having a Swing Charm on the seat.

You went shopping with your mother in Diagon Alley once or twice for grocery supplies.

You also went crazy with worry over your husband. Whether he had been shipped out or not, whether he was already in battle. Your owl, Violet, had come a few times bearing a piece of parchment. You never opened it up, and sent a tired Violet right back from where she came.

That was either to show him that you were strong or stupid. One of the two, because at this moment you were dying to know how he was doing.

You went into labor after eating one too many Chocolate Frogs, it seemed. After Frog #9 escaped your grasp ( you were too tired to chase it and Frankie was nowhere in sight), your water broke and you settled in for twenty-four hours of reliving the worst pain in your life.

You yelled, you cursed his name ("Longbottom, if you were he-heeere, right, now, I'd _kill _you!"), but between the contractions, you had a complete and utter change of mood: "Neville, _Nev-"_ and the pain would come again, strong and hard as you attempted to bring this child in to the world.

It was having Francesca all over again, and you questioned why the consequence of something so pleasurable resulted in pain that you didn't think Voldemort himself could inflict.

This time, though, your husband was not there to witness the birth. 

At least, that's what you thought, as they wheeled you out of delivery, you clutching perhaps the finest looking boy the wizarding world had ever seen, other than your husband of course. 

You saw him standing near a wall in scrubs, smiling sheepishly. You asked the orderly to put a stop to the charm that was currently moving you towards the maternity room where you'd spend the next few days recovering.

"You're here," you commented dryly.

"Dr. Boonyfetter let me stand in the back and watch the delivery," Neville confessed red-cheeked, before looking down at his son. "So that's him?"

"That's him," you replied abruptly, clutching the child who greatly resembled his father with his round cheeks and tufts of brown hair. 

"His name?" he whispered hopefully.

"It's what we decided: Perry Trevor Parkinson Longbottom."

"Hey, Trevor, I'm your daddy. He's beautiful, Pansy, my Puffskein, just beautiful." He looked at you, tears in his eyes. 

You tried to avoid his gaze because one look into them and you'd be like a Hufflepuff at the sight of a fuzzy bunny. 

"I - ummm, I Apparate tomorrow. I am going to meet Harry on the front lines, according to Percy's orders," he revealed.

You looked at the wall behind him as your heart broke. _He hadn't left yet, he hadn't left yet_. This could be the chance, a chance, any chance to salvage something. 

You turned your stare towards him, pleadingly, offering the child to him - and you _melted._

"I love you," you whispered.

"Oh, Puffskein, I love you too," he answered, taking Trevor and kissing you as lay on the gurney.

"Stay, then. Ignore your orders. Quit the Legion, Neville. For me, for Frankie, for _Trevor, _quit and stay with us! Safe, where we'll be happy and you can get to know your son."

He looked imploringly at you, as if he were weighing his decision in that moment. He handed the child back to you. "I can't do that, I can't just quit. I made a promise."

"Yes, well, you made a promise to me that you'd always be by my side for me and for these children. You broke that promise. Get out of here, Longbottom. Just go get yourself killed."

The gurney moved.

The child gurgled. 

Neville stood motionless, defeated.

And you cried.


End file.
